Her name was Belladonna Nightshade. She had waist length blonde hair, and heterochromia (blue/green). She was an orphan. She was the smartest person around. She was twelve. She wore the exact same clothes twelve year old me wore.
It's, she, well. I don't use her anymore, but she came attached to a book. It's so bad. Here's some of it (below the cut on account of being terrible and causing me psychic damage):
Belladonna stood outside the house, wrapped in a web of confusion. The murder made no sense, none at all. Opal being the murderer was out of the question, and she was the perfect person to frame, the obvious scapegoat. But, at the same time, there seemed to be no way to prove her long-time friend innocent. Her brain spiralled in different directions, and her battle to hold up her poker face, her smooth stone mask, her calm untroubled stance became extreme. She barely noticed the fain, indistinct tipper-tap of Holly’s distinctive footsteps (everyone walks differently. If you don’t believe me, try it) but managed to pull herself together.
“BOO!” Holly leapt out at her. Not surprising, but she turned around to talk.
“Have you seen Julie?” She hated how her voice became desperate, but Opal’s last hope relied on Julie.
Holly looked wounded for a second. “Not good enough for you, am I? Though I suppose you want to help Opal, the little fiend,” she smirked. Holly leaned towards her. “You do realise, Opal could have done it.”
Belladonna was too shocked to reply. Opal was her friend, and she should have been protecting her, not accusing her.
“You should know that Lily Fairweather was dead long before that girl ever set foot here. Her real name is Grace Stanley, and Anne doesn’t know because Lily’s grave is in the abandoned cemetery up in the woods.”
